


After the Fall

by DjaqtheRipper



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Captain Will Graham, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal drinks gatorade, M/M, MacGuyver Surgery, Murder Husbands, Post-Canon: After the Fall, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, Will Graham Boat Thief, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter in Cuba, only cops call Gatorade colors by their names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DjaqtheRipper/pseuds/DjaqtheRipper
Summary: Post S3E13. My thoughts on what happens after the canon.“Do you not understand?” Hannibal asks, teeth flashing in the moonlight  in a smile like the glint of a razor blade. “We will never die. Death will never stop us.”Will laughs, even as it scrapes his throat raw. “So that’s the plan?” Will asks, clasping Hannibal’s waist. “Never die?”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 108





	1. The Fall

First, there is unbearable pain. The chill of the roiling Atlantic fills Will’s mouth, his nose, stings his eyes, sears his open wounds. He sinks deeper and deeper, the force of the fall propelling him far into the freezing water. His lungs ache against the onslaught of the ocean and he screams against his unyielding surroundings. The water seeps deeper into his lungs, burns his mouth, fills the parts of his body torn open by the Dragon’s knife. He is consumed by the sea. 

_So this is what dying feels like._

He opens his eyes into the blackness, prepared to be devoured by the ocean. This is what he wanted, he thinks, and exhales, pushing the water out of his lungs, inviting more of the sea to come into his body with his next inhale. He lets himself sink. 

Hannibal kicks against the waves, the instinct of years of swimming laps pushing him into motion. He fights back against the sea and forces his way to the surface by force of will alone. There is pain, he notes somewhere in the part of his mind that is not consumed with exhilaration. There is pain, but it doesn’t matter because Will is here with him. Will admitted the beauty of their shared kill, so nothing can hurt Hannibal now. 

Will is drowning, opening his eyes against the burn of salt and seeing only the blackness of the water, the tides tugging him ever deeper into the abyss. He is ready for the onslaught. He has killed, and he has seen the beauty in killing. He is ready for oblivion. 

Hannibal’s head breaks the surface and he gasps, pushing the water from his lungs and relishing the first deep breath of clear air. His body stings and burns and aches all over, but none of that matters. He is baptised in the light of the moon and the ragged breaths he draws. Life is his religion, and he praises it with every breath. The pain can wait. He is alive. 

Will is dying. He can feel the numbness setting into his extremities, feel it seeping from the cold water into the lengths of his fingers and toes, feel it oozing into his limbs. His lungs burn for oxygen and he lets them tinder away unheeded. Behind his stinging eyes, the glory of the demise of the Great Red Dragon, the image of blood against his hands turned black in the moonlight. Will savors the pain, for the pain is the price of experiencing true beauty for the first and last time. He is blinded by beauty, and he savors every second of it, even as the images grow dark around the edges. 

Hannibal is risen, born again in the rush of the fall. He is Lucifer, the Fallen One, the Morningstar burning bright and purpose affirmed in falling. But as he scans the crashing waves, he doesn’t see Will, his partner in life and death, the only living person to have ever understood him. Will is the reason Hannibal is risen. Will is the reason that Hannibal is soaring with elation even as his body begs for attention and an end to the enduring mortal pains racking his very being. It may be better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven, but he no longer has the desire to reign if Will is not on the throne beside him. 

Will lets the swirling darkness consume him. This is what he wanted when he dragged Hannibal over the cliff: to die in the ecstasy of the destruction of the Great Red Dragon and never have to face the life that his first killing had first laid out for him. But even as he drowns, Will yearns for more. The water takes him away from breath and light and shore, but it can’t take away his desire for new life. He is a killer now, and he has killed before, but never thought it beautiful, except deep in the recesses of his mind, concealed behind the guise of law and order. Will is letting the beauty of it kill him because seeing such beauty again is impossible. Will is not only dying, but with every moment he lets himself sink, he is destroying himself. _Suicide is the enemy,_ Hannibal had said to the Dragon, but Will, evidently, had not taken heed. Every moment of inaction is a step towards suicide. 

Hannibal steels himself with a deep breath and dives back beneath the waves, even as his body protests. Will is still in the water. They consumed the Dragon together, and together they have been born again in the fall. They belong together, in life and in death, and death is not due for many years, if ever. Together, they have cheated death time and time again. Hannibal has always considered himself invincible, with the light of the Morningstar, first fallen and most beloved of all the angels. But now he has been not seen but Seen, born again in the eyes of another. Will gives him life, and life is his religion. Hannibal may be Lucifer but Will is God, giver of life and eternity. Lucifer has no power if not for the contrapoint of God as his definer and chiaroscuro. Hannibal forces his body deeper in the waves until he can’t hold his breath any longer, then kicks a final time. His hands scour the water for some sign of life, but he finds nothing. 

Hannibal breaks the surface again to draw breath, and then dives below again, into the blackness. He is an experienced swimmer, but the tide against the rocks is powerful, and he finds himself torn farther and farther away from where they had first pierced the veil of the water. He tries again, gasping the air as deep into his lungs as he can manage before dropping again below the cut of the waves. 

Just as Will is about to give over to oblivion, something grasps at him and pulls him back to the surface. He and Hannibal emerge breathless, Will coughing up blood and brine. Will gasps over and over, choking out seawater that seems to come from the deepest recesses of his body. Suicide is the enemy, Hannibal repeats again in his head. Hannibal is grasping at him wherever he can find purchase. Over the labored kicking that keeps them afloat, Hannibal pulls Will to him, holding him as close as he can with the tides pulling them apart and their legs working to keep their heads above the water. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” Hannibal manages between gasps. 

“I thought you’d lost me, too,” Will chokes out between heaves of seawater. 

“You have a life of beauty ahead of you,” Hannibal says, grasping Will’s shoulder through the water. “This is not your time to die.” 

“Why not?” Will asks, when the heaving has stopped. 

“I am not done with you yet.” 

“So I can die when you’re done with me?” 

“I could never be done with you, Will.” 

“So I suppose I can never die, then?” 

“Do you not understand?” Hannibal asks, teeth flashing in the moonlight in a smile like the glint of a razor blade. “We will never die. Death will never stop us.” 

Will laughs, even as it scrapes his throat raw. “So that’s the plan?” Will asks, clasping Hannibal’s waist. “Never die?” 

“Together, we are immortal,” Hannibal responds, brushing the hair out of Will’s face in a mirror of the way he’d touched him before he disemboweled him years and lifetimes before. “We are the fallen ones, and we will outlive God himself purely out of spite.” 

“Here’s to forever, then,” Will says, and presses his forehead to Hannibal’s. 


	2. Cool Blue Gatorade and MacGuyver Self Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you thought about where we’re going?” Hannibal asks. He’s sitting in the passenger seat of the boat shirtless, bloody, and freshly sutured, sipping a Cool Blue Gatorade. It’s not where he thought his life would have taken him, were one to ask him the day before as he waited in prison to be taken to meet the Dragon, but he can’t say he’s complaining

The morning after the Fall dawns cold and dim. The sky is overcast and the light of the sun barely breaks through.

The boat is one of several, docked along the cliffs during the off-season. _The Gull_ , it is called. It isn’t the name that draws Will to it so much as the way it is draped for winter, clearly long disused, though well-maintained. This is a summer leisure boat, meant for day trips out fishing, or hours spent lounging on the deck in the sunshine. This is a rich man’s toy, and it is replaceable to the owner ̶̶ precisely as replaceable to him as it is irreplaceable to Will. This is not a theft for which he will feel any remorse. Will wonders, vaguely, if remorse is an emotion he no longer has use for. Remorse is used to school the social animal into compliance with behavioral norms, and Will is hours ̶̶ though it feels more like years, when he is honest with himself ̶̶ away from social norms. Autumn has sent _The Gull_ to the docks, where it drifts listlessly. It is as ready for adventure as Will is. 

“Will this do?” Hannibal asks, lingering a ways off on the docks. He is still limping, but he has time to heal. Will considers that they have nothing but time, but the continued steady trickle of blood from Hannibal’s abdomen makes him realize that this assessment may not be entirely true. 

Will undoes the weather guard, pulls back the tarp and leaps onto the deck. His leg aches where he lands and starts bleeding fresh. He decides to make first aid a priority before he looks at the wiring. He commences a search of the cockpit and discovers a yellow plastic box with a handle, tucked behind the captain’s seat. He flips the latches open and an abundance of first aid supplies pours out, as well as a handful of condoms. _Pleasure boat, indeed._

“I think this will work,” Will calls to Hannibal. “There’s first aid, at least.” 

With great effort that Hannibal tries to downplay, he climbs onboard. His breath hitches with the way his bullet wound pulls, but he tries to pass it off as a cough. He doesn’t know why he is downplaying his injuries to Will. _So he won’t worry,_ the back of his mind replies, in a voice that reminds him of Chiyoh. Hannibal clambers over to Will, robbed of his usual casual grace. Wounded and exhilarated and bleeding and victorious, he has never felt more human than he does as he watches Will frown slightly and dig for suture packs. He takes a moment to inhale slowly and commit the image to his memory palace. 

“I don’t really know what you need,” Will admits after a few more moments of rummaging. “I suppose I should leave it to the doctor.” 

Hannibal smiles slightly at the invocation of his old title and takes the box. His hands are trembling. _Odd, that._ As he digs through the box, locating the supplies he needs, he realizes that it isn’t his hands that are trembling, it’s his whole body. He is starting to go into shock. The rush of The Fall has made him stop taking tally of how much blood he has lost. _How much blood we’ve both lost._ He doesn’t know if Will is even in a state to provide a transfusion, even if they can find the appropriate supplies on this vessel. Will says something, but Hannibal can’t process it. His vision is starting to get hazy around the edges, like it did when he was shot with tranquilizers by Mason Verger’s henchmen in Florence. 

“Hannibal?” Will asks, concern creeping into his voice. Hannibal collapses forward and Will rushes over to catch him. Will shifts the brunt of Hannibal’s weight into his arms and all but carries him down to the hull, where there is a long semi-circular lounge that wraps around the width of the cabin. Will helps Hannibal recline and tries to remember first aid. More than first aid, he remembers bleeding out from being disemboweled in Hannibal’s kitchen. How did he survive then? 

First, pack the wound. 

“I’ll be right back,” Will promises, and doesn’t wait for a response before returning to the deck and carrying the scattered first aid supplies down the stairs. He leaves the assorted supplies on the floor, divided between the items Hannibal had been looking at and the rest of the box. He remembers a packet of gauze, and he digs for it now. When he was dying last time, when Abigail was bleeding out in his arms, Will’s hands were shaking and frantic. His heart was pounding, forcing blood out of his body faster. Now, his hands are quick and steady and sure. He finds the gauze pads and unwraps them. They are sterile and soft in his hands. He folds them together into the shape of Hannibal’s abdominal wound. Then, he returns to Hannibal’s side. 

“This will hurt,” he warns. Hannibal nods vaguely and relaxes into the chaise. 

“I trust you, Will,” he says, and closes his eyes. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch when Will packs the wound. 

Next, fluids. 

Will doesn’t know if they’re the same blood type, or if he would even know how to perform a blood transfusion, or if they have the supplies necessary to do so. Instead, he takes inventory of the rest of the first aid supplies, looking for something with electrolytes. There isn’t anything in the kit, but it gives him an idea. Will remembers seeing a small kitchenette on the other side of the cabin, and hastens to it. He digs through the cupboards, finding assorted snacks and alcoholic beverages, none of which help him. Just as he’s about to give up, he opens the fridge and finds a rainbow of Gatorade. _Thank Go ̶̶ Thank whoever, thank whatever, thank nothing,_ Will thinks. 

“Do you want Cool Blue, Arctic Blitz, or Blackberry Wave?” Will asks, only half listening for an answer. 

Hannibal’s eyes open, and he frowns at Will like Will is the one going into shock. “What?”

“Cool Blue it is!” Will says brightly. Cool Blue was the one they gave him in the hospital when he had his temporary colostomy bag. He grew rather fond of it eventually. Will grabs a few bottles and closes the fridge. “Here. Drink up,” he instructs Hannibal. 

Hannibal eyes the Gatorade skeptically, or as skeptically as he can manage with a stomach full of gauze and his body shaking. “You want me to drink that?” 

Will puts on his best stern voice. He heard it from a lot of nurses in the hospital. “You are not in the position to be picky, Hannibal. Drink the Gatorade.” 

“As you wish,” Hannibal admits in defeat and takes a sip. He winces. 

“Does it hurt to drink?” Will asks, preparing to go dig for some Tylenol.

“No. Yes, but. It just tastes _aggressively blue._ ” Hannibal says, and drinks some more.

Will laughs. “You are a terrible patient, Dr. Lecter.” Hannibal smiles, and finishes the bottle. He hands the empty to Will, like he’s waiting for praise. 

“Well done,” Will acknowledges, and hands him another. “Here’s your reward.” 

“Of course,” Hannibal sighs. 

With the bleeding stopped and more fluid in his body, Hannibal gradually drifts away from the threshold of shock. 

“Let me see,” Will asks, and catches Hannibal’s wrist. Hannibal flattens his palm to show that his hands have stopped shaking. Will looks for a moment, turning Hannibal’s hand over, looking at it palm to fingertips to palm again. He’d never had cause to notice before, but Hannibal has beautiful hands. They’re caught somewhere between surgery and symphony. Hands that create and destroy, that bloody and wound and heal. They are perhaps the most human part of him, and Hannibal freely gives them to Will. 

“Go on,” Will swallows against his suddenly dry mouth, “let me see the other one, then.” Hannibal tilts his head slightly, like he wants to ask a question, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he holds out his other hand, spread open to show that the trembling has stopped. 

Except for the part where it hasn’t stopped trembling. 

“You’re still a little shaky,” Will says, forcing his voice to be even. “Do you want another Gatorade? Some Tylenol?” 

Hannibal shakes his head. His heart is pounding. When he kills, his heart is steady, but now Will is holding his hands and his heart is racing. He can feel it throbbing in his neck like the wings of a caged bird. This is his cage, now. Will has always been his cage. Prison could not hold him but for the promise of Will always knowing where to find him. 

Hannibal spreads the fingers of the hands that are caught between music and medicine and murder, and catches Will’s hands in his. His eyes are wide, devouringly so, trying to take in every new facet of this strange monstrous marvel of a man he has created. Will looks at him like he Sees, like he has always Seen. Here they are together, after death and in the throes of new life. Nothing further needs to be said between them. 

“Are you going to be able to stitch yourself up, or do you want me to?” Will asks, eventually.

“I might need help,” Hannibal admits. “I don’t know how much internal damage there is.” 

“The Dragon wouldn’t have wanted to cause any. The bullet was just to incapacitate. He wanted you alive to Change you.” 

“That is what I am hoping, but I can’t know for sure.” 

“So what do you want to do?” Will asks, letting go of Hannibal’s hands. 

Hannibal almost voices protest at the loss of contact, but he forces restraint. Better to let Will approach this on his own terms. After all, they have forever. Forever had always seemed dull to Hannibal. Not lonely, exactly, at least not until he realized that he wouldn’t have to spend it alone. It seemed like a game without end, full of distractions, some of them even pleasant, but none of them enough to justify a lifetime. There were setbacks, advantages, disadvantages, but none of them enough to make it an entertaining game. There were opponents, but none of them challenging enough to make the game enjoyable. And then there was Will, who was both the only worthy adversary Hannibal had ever faced and the only ally worth having. Now that he knows what it is like to have a true partner, Hannibal isn’t ready for the game to end. Will is the only reason Hannibal wants forever. 

“Please bring me the suture kit,” Hannibal instructs. “And the dental kit, too.” Will digs through the pile Hannibal had been working with and comes up with a military-grade suture set, complete with four nylon suture sets in plastic packaging and the necessary tools. There’s also a small dental kit in a navy case. With the amount of first aid supplies onboard, Will wonders if the owner of the boat does First Response in his ̶̶ or her ̶̶ free time. That makes him feel a little worse about taking the guy’s boat, but not that much worse. They need it more than he does. 

Hannibal looks through the kit and examines each of the instruments. He lines them up along the back of the chaise so he can reach them. 

“I think I can manage,” Hannibal sighs. “It is hardly ideal, but I think it will work. Scissors?” Hannibal requests, and Will brings him a pair from the depths of the yellow first aid box. Hannibal takes them, and carefully cuts through the seams of his shirt, peeling the bloody fabric away from his torso. 

He’s leaner than Will remembers from the Verger farm. Clearly prison had not agreed with him. Already, Will looks forward to seeing him made strong again, ready to take on the world. He wants to see him regain the muscle and color that he had before prison. 

“Here, hold this,” Hannibal instructs again, and hands Will a pair of forceps. “You’ve been my sous chef before; now you can be my surgical assistant.” 

“Yes, Doctor,” Will deadpans, but takes the forceps. Hannibal smiles broadly, pleased. 

“This is going to be unpleasant,” Hannibal warns gleefully. 

Several hours later, they are stitched up and ready to steal a boat. 

“May I have another Cool Blue Gatorade?” Hannibal asks, sitting up. Will smiles before he can help himself and fetches a Gatorade from the fridge. 

“You should know that only cops call them by their names,” Will corrects. 

“Sorry?” Hannibal asks, puzzled. 

“That’s what people say, anyway. You can just call it blue.” 

“Have you ever hotwired a boat before?” Hannibal wonders, genuinely curious. Will shrugs, climbing into the cockpit. Hannibal joins him, taking the seat beside. Reaching into his pocket, Will withdraws a pocketknife that had survived The Fall. 

“When I was a kid, my dad and I lived in Florida for a summer. There was this guy, Randy, who lost the keys to his boat every other week. We had to hotwire his boat a few times,” Will grunts, twisting the Phillips head screwdriver attachment to remove the panelling of the boat’s wiring. “And when I was a cop in Louisiana I had to give chase to someone on a boat, so I had to steal one.” Off Hannibal’s look, he adds, “I gave it back, of course, and they were compensated, but, yes, I’ve stolen a few boats.” Holding the screwdriver apparatus in his teeth, Will clambers under the seat to reach the wiring. Muffled, he continues. “The real problem on a boat like this is if the cooling system doesn’t start when the engine does, you’re in a lot of trouble. So I’m trying to work around that.” He continues working with the wires, feet scuffing the leather upholstery of the captain’s seat. 

“Have you thought about where we’re going?” Hannibal asks. He’s sitting in the passenger seat shirtless, bloody, and freshly sutured, sipping a Cool Blue Gatorade. It’s not where he thought his life would have taken him, were one to ask him the day before as he waited in prison to be taken to meet the Dragon, but he can’t say he’s complaining. 

Will smacks his head on the undercarriage of the boat and curses. “I thought you were the brains of this operation.” 

“Oh, good.” Hannibal says lightly. “I wanted to visit Bedelia.” 

The boat rumbles to life under them. Will emerges from the depths of the boat’s wiring and takes his rightful seat in the captain’s chair. “Bedelia, huh?” 

Will pulls the boat into the open ocean. There’s a pair of sunglasses on the dashboard. He slips them on. After all, finders keepers. “A visit with Bedelia sounds…” he thinks about the right word, “delectable.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, there might be too much Gatorade in this chapter. Sorry. There will be no Gatorade in the following chapters.


	3. In Media Res

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is panting heavily, two pinpricks of blood staining his collar where the carving fork had stabbed him. Otherwise, he is unharmed. The same cannot be said of Bedelia, who is dead on the floor in a growing pool of arterial gush. Will’s hand is steady around the bloody steak knife. As he catches his breath, he meets Hannibal’s eyes. Then, without breaking eye contact, Will slowly takes a sip from his wine glass. His eyes flutter closed. He drops the knife, which falls to the floor unregarded, and swallows.  
> “This wine really is excellent,” Will says.  
> Hannibal has never loved anyone more in his life.

The dinner was a resounding success, Hannibal would say if prompted. The food was superb ̶̶ the meat is a little lean for his taste, but what it lacked in texture it made up for in flavor. Anticipation is a singular taste to create, and the effect was mouthwatering. Even Bedelia admitted that it was delicious. The wine was excellent: a rare vintage stored out of sight for decades, brought to light for a _very_ special occasion. The guests were impeccably dressed, with Will in a fitted grey suit and Bedelia in a blue evening gown. 

The mood was divine. Tapered candles lined every surface, and cast a faint glow on the company of players. The candlelight tastefully plumbed the depths of Bedelia’s low-cut gown and played delicate shadows across the bones of Will’s face in a manner that Hannibal hoped always to remember. The music was soft and atmospheric ̶̶ soothing, almost, an aid to digestion and mood. Everything was as perfect as Hannibal could orchestrate it to be, and he has always considered himself a maestro of fabulous dinner parties. 

The best part, however, is not something neither the Devil nor God Himself could have manipulated so perfectly. 

Will is panting heavily, two pinpricks of blood staining his collar where the carving fork had stabbed him. Otherwise, he is unharmed. The same cannot be said of Bedelia, who is dead on the floor in a growing pool of arterial gush. Will’s hand is steady around the bloody steak knife. As he catches his breath, he meets Hannibal’s eyes. Then, without breaking eye contact, Will slowly takes a sip from his wine glass. His eyes flutter closed. He drops the knife, which falls to the floor unregarded, and swallows. 

“This wine really is excellent,” Will says. 

Hannibal has never loved anyone more in his life. 

“Indeed,” is all Hannibal can manage, because, for the second time in a day, this absurd and marvelous man has robbed him of all conscious thought and left only a spreading warmth like the flush of a single-malt scotch. It rises through Hannibal, and he can only breathe against the swelling tides that threaten to overwhelm him. _You are beautiful,_ he wants to say, but the words themselves are insufficient. Hannibal has read strong arguments for language being the limit of capacity for understanding ̶̶ Wittgenstein springs quickly to mind ̶̶ but in this moment he truly feels he has no words to express the well of emotion that has sprung up inside him. 

“It was cruel of Bedelia to keep this bottle from me during all our therapy sessions.” Will continues, drawing out his chair and taking a seat. Seemingly oblivious to Hannibal’s euphoria, Will raises his fork and knife and slices into a piece of the meat on his plate. He savors the bite, chewing delicately. 

“From me as well,” Hannibal says, and takes a bite of his own. 

“What did you talk about in therapy with Bedelia?” Will asks, once he has swallowed. 

“You,” Hannibal admits, wiping his mouth with a linen. “Amongst other matters.” 

“Really?” Will asks, swirling the stem of his wine glass. “I’m flattered, Doctor. What did Bedelia say about me?” 

Hannibal smiles, the answering smile of one apex predator addressing another. “She suggested that I was obsessed with you.” Will raises his eyebrows. It is a testament to how much he has developed in the cocoon that Hannibal cannot tell if he is genuinely surprised. 

He loves this man _impossibly._

“Were you?” Will decides on. Hannibal tries to smile again but some niggling memory stops him. _“You’d only turn yourself in if I rejected you.”_ Ah. There it is. But surely they are past rejection now? 

“Obviously,” Hannibal says, and occupies himself with a careful sniff of his wine. The bouquet is really quite lovely: there are violets in the undertones, some rarer flower that has bloomed in the time that has elapsed between sealing and decanting the wine. When Will doesn’t respond, Hannibal chances a look at him. His face is closed. This is new to Hannibal. He hoped Will would always be open to him after The Fall. “What did you and Dr. du Maurier talk about in your sessions?” 

“Oh, you.” Will sighs, and repeats Hannibal’s own words. “Amongst other matters.” In this, as in all things, they reflect each other. Hannibal had not realized that Bedelia was one glass that they both looked into to find the image of the other. 

“Oh?” Hannibal asks, guarded. Ever the careful therapist. Say as little as possible. Let the client draw the conclusions for themselves. It is more therapeutic that way. 

“I asked her once if you were in love with me.” 

“Did you?” Hannibal feigns interest in his wine. “And what did she say?” 

Will’s face is closed, but his eyes are soft. “She asked if I could, how did she put it, ‘daily feel a stab of hunger for me and find nourishment at the sight of me.’ She said yes.” 

“Was that all she said?” Hannibal asks, setting the wine aside. When he meets them, Will’s eyes are burning. 

“She asked if I ache for you.” 

“Ah. Do you?” 

“You first.” 

“Will…” Hannibal cautions, but Will cuts him off. 

“I want to know.” 

“Why?” Hannibal counters. 

“Why do you think I came up with a plan that would help you escape?” Will asks coldly, stubborn. 

“Because you can’t live with me and you can’t live without me.” 

Will forces breath through his teeth. “She said those words to me.” 

“Where do you think she came to the idea?” Hannibal rebuts. “Because we are conjoined. Because neither of us can survive separation. Those are the words you said to me. Do you still think that is true?” 

This gives Will pause. He swirls his wine disinterestedly, like he isn’t seeing the glass in his hands. “No.” He decides upon. “And yes.” Will sighs. “I know who I am apart from you. But I never know myself as well as I do when I’m with you. We are halves of a whole.” 

“Perhaps together we make a complete person.” Hannibal postulates. “Two sides of the same coin.” 

“I don’t want to be myself apart from you again.” Will settles on. “I don’t know if I love you, but I know I don’t want to live a life without you in it.” 

Hannibal considers this for a moment. “Till death do us part?” 

Will laughs, and Hannibal isn’t sure if he should be affronted until Will takes his hand, like he had on the boat that morning. The same magnetism pulls them together. Will’s eyes meet Hannibal’s, and there is desire there, and something darker, something that tastes like adrenaline on Hannibal’s tongue: fear. 

“Partners in crime?” Will asks in response. 

“Am I being friend-zoned?” Hannibal resorts to colloquialism. 

Will smiles crookedly, like he’s enjoying a private joke. Without letting go of Hannibal’s hand, he rises from his chair, and bends over Hannibal. He wraps his arm around Hannibal, who wonders if he’s receiving the most surreal hug of his life, until he realizes that, no, this was how Will had been holding him right before he dragged them both over the edge of the cliffs. Hannibal’s hands gravitate towards Will’s waist, his wounded shoulder, as he had held him the night before after their first shared kill. 

There’s a kind of symmetry to it, their last kill in their old lives apart, their first kill in their new lives together. Hannibal relaxes into the embrace. Just as he’s growing comfortable, Will’s hands fist into his shirt and drag him into the most passionate kiss of Hannibal’s life. 

It burns, like iron forged in flame, something new and fierce and deadly erupting to life. It steals Hannibal’s breath. He drags his hands across Will’s back, raking his nails into the fabric of his suit. Together, they burn. Hannibal aches with a fresh hunger, the same painful ache that consumed him after Will left him in his prison cell. Before, however, was the ache of yearning. Now he knows the ache of having. It is a hunger he has never known. It claws at his stomach and craves not blood but something even more vital ̶̶ something more vital and intimate than breath or blood or body. Hannibal wants Will’s life, not as something to destroy or possess, but to share. Hannibal wants to crawl into Will’s body and make a home for himself there. 

Hannibal is the one who breaks the kiss. He has to. If he endures any more of that ravenous ache he doesn’t know what he will do with himself. When he pulls away, Will is smiling, not the harsh smile of a predator to another predator, but the gentle smile of the early days of their friendship. 

“I’ve been wanting to try that,” Will says conversationally. “I didn’t know if I’d like it. You aren’t exactly my type.” 

“What is your type, then?” Hannibal asks breathlessly. Will shrugs, leaning against the edge of the table, seemingly unwilling to put any distance between them. 

“Female.” 

“I am not a woman, Will.” 

“I am… _acutely_ aware of that, Hannibal.” 

“So?” Hannibal prompts. Will reaches across the table to grab his wine. This time he sniffs it carefully. Hannibal wonders if he can smell the violets. 

“Hmmm?” Will asks, taking a sip of his wine. 

“Would you consider that to be an experiment worth repeating?” 

A precisely devilish look comes into Will’s eyes, and he leans close to Hannibal. At this level, Hannibal closely observes the pinpricks of blood on Will’s collar. “Absolutely,” Will growls. 

“You’re new to this, so I’ll be gentle with you,” Hannibal replies, trying to be considerate in spite of the way that growl made his blood begin to thrum through his body with every rapid heartbeat. 

“I don’t remotely want you to be gentle with me,” Will says slowly, surely. “But I do want you to go slow. After all,” Will smiles again, almost cherubic this time, “We will outlive God himself purely out of spite. We have the rest of our lives, Hannibal.” 

In all his years, Hannibal has never been so excited to see what the rest of his life has to offer. 


	4. Devil's Backbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will face challenges on their way to Cuba.

The trip to Cuba by boat is long and taxing, with the fear of pursuit close on both of their minds. They sail as much as possible, stopping only when Will’s eyes are long past itching with tiredness and his body is fatigued from maneuvering the boat. They sleep in turns so Hannibal can check the radio for news of pursuit by law enforcement when Will is asleep. It would be almost unbearable for Will if not for the constant presence of Hannibal, who is thoroughly relishing freedom and who, it seems, nothing can shake. He is a steady and guiding light in Will’s life during these dark days. Through the stress of being fugitives, there is Hannibal serving Will coffee as he steers, the two of them passing the mug back and forth until it warms their hands and insides. There is Hannibal, watching the sunset with him, both of them greedy for whatever is beyond the horizon. 

The air is freezing on the deck. The sky is laden with heavy clouds that threaten a late snow and the sunlight makes only infrequent bids for freedom from its cumulonimbus prison. When Will sits at the helm his breath fogs the air with every exhale. The radio stays on both day and night, both of them listening for signs that the police are close behind. For the first two days they stop only for fuel and food, with Hannibal disappearing for an hour at a time and returning with groceries while Will refuels, scanning the horizon for approaching sirens and counting the minutes until Hannibal returns. 

“Wait only an hour, “ Hannibal instructs the first time they stop. “If I’m gone longer than that, go on without me.” 

“I’m not leaving without you,” Will insists. “I’m not going to live without you again.” 

“All the same,” Hannibal sighs, “It would do no good for both of us to be caught.” 

“What would you do if _I_ was caught, Hannibal? Would you wait an hour and move on?” 

Hannibal shakes his head, knowing he’s lost the argument. “I would want to come after you.” 

“Exactly.” Will affirms. “If we go down, we go down together.” 

Hannibal returns within forty-seven minutes, carrying bags full of non-perishable goods, water, and changes of clothes for both of them, as well as two burner phones. Will rushes to help him carry the items aboard, not because he doesn’t think Hannibal can manage himself, but because he’s so relieved to see him that he needs to touch him right now, if only to reassure himself that Hannibal is safe. Before Will accepts the bags, he puts his palm to Hannibal’s cheek, pulling their foreheads together. 

“Did you miss me?” Hannibal breathes. 

“Terribly.” Will admits, and smiles shakily. Hannibal takes his other hand and squeezes once, firmly, just to let Will know that he’s here, he’s real, he’s not going anywhere. Will squeezes back. 

To pass the time, Hannibal teaches Will Spanish, bringing him items from their inventory and giving him their Spanish names. Will has always been a fast learner. Hannibal sits in the passenger seat and they while away the hours by practicing Spanish conversations, beginning with simple language (Will cannot get used to gendering items) and eventually progressing to more complicated verb conjugations. By the time they reach Georgia they’re speaking in more Spanish than English, just for practice. Will’s grammar is decent, but his accent needs work. He looks forward to practicing with native Spanish speakers. 

Hannibal says he has to make a phone call. He goes into the cabin, but Will can hear him speaking rapid, fluid Spanish, in the Cuban accent he’s been trying to teach Will. A lot of the conversation is too fast for Will to make out, but he hears “ _pasaporte_ ” and “ _el dinero_ ” which he recognizes as “passport” and “money.” Will tries to keep track of the conversation, but the wind starts up again and the sound is lost on the gusts. When Hannibal emerges from the cabin, Will doesn’t have to wonder for long. 

“I have secured us two Cuban passports and a withdrawal from one of my hidden accounts in pesos. We’ll have to stop in Florida.” 

“How long will we need to stop?” Will asks, grateful. 

“Perhaps two hours. My, shall we call him my friend, works inland. There may be some travel.” Sensing Will’s worry, Hannibal continues. “I will try not to be long. And we have the phones, now. I will call you if anything is amiss.” 

They reach the docks in the early afternoon. Will is relieved because they are so close now, and still not a word on the radio indicating that they will be captured. He is also dreading the disembarkment, when Hannibal will have to travel alone. The moment has come, Hannibal is gathering his things to leave and Will can’t stand it. He hovers, watching Hannibal tie his shoes. When he rises, Will is still staring at him, trying to memorize the sight in case he doesn’t come back. Will is wondering how long he should wait before he goes in after him, to pull him from the mouth of the Leviathan, as he had pulled him from the jaws of the Dragon. 

Sensing Will’s worry, Hannibal tries to dissuade it. “I’ll be back soon. I’ll call if anything goes wrong.” 

Will nods. Hannibal continues. “I know I cannot convince you to go on without me, but if I am captured, I hope you will go on to Cuba, start a new life. Make new memories and share them with me through our jointly held rooms in the Memory Palace.” 

Will shakes his head. “Not a chance.” Hannibal smiles and catches Will’s chin lightly in his hand. “Always so stubborn,” Hannibal half-chastises, half-praises. He starts to pull back, but Will catches his shoulder and pulls them in together. Hannibal pauses, waiting for Will to make the first move. With shaking breath, Will watches Hannibal, the guardedly hopeful yet still tentative gleam in his eyes, his responsiveness to Will’s touch, the way he stopped moving as soon as Will touched him, simply waiting, a predator regarding a circling rival. 

Will touches him lightly, carefully, as though Hannibal will pull away if he moves too fast. He runs his fingers along Hannibal’s cheekbone, over the scar he’s had for years now, a scar that Will knows he was there for the making of, but cannot remember what caused it. They share so many scars now, the new scars, the skin still knitting together, the older scars, pink and edges raw, the oldest scars, where no blood flows, and the skin cannot flush along the lines of scar tissue. Will meets Hannibal’s eyes, and is struck by what he finds there, the passion beneath that contained gaze. He presses his lips to Hannibal’s cheek, brief, chaste, almost. Then he catches Hannibal’s face between his fingers, feels the fine bones of his skull underneath. He remembers Hannibal wounded, Hannibal bleeding out only a few days ago. He seems like a monster, but beneath the monstrosity of him is skin and flesh and bone. Hannibal can be wounded. Hannibal can be killed. 

If this is the last time they’re together, Will wants to cherish it. Slowly, with a tenderness he didn’t expect of himself, he presses their lips together. Hannibal exhales and Will takes Hannibal’s breath into his body. Will inhales and deepens the kiss. He feels an involuntary shudder climbing up his spine at the gentleness of it, touching the man like this after everything they’ve done to each other, for each other. Hannibal presses a palm to Will’s cheek, guiding the kiss. His touch is so light, so delicate, the touch of a musician or an artist. Will finds himself undone by the tenderness. The polarity of the brutal violence of the man with this gentle touch is too much for Will. He pulls back gasping. 

“For good luck,” Will mutters, trembling. 

“ _Te amo_ ” Hannibal says softly, eyes burning. It’s a phrase Will doesn’t recognize.

“What does that mean?” Will asks. 

“I’ll tell you when I get back,” Hannibal promises and puts on his coat. 

The hours following Hannibal’s departure are some of the longest of Will’s life. When he was wrongly incarcerated, he at least knew that he had nothing in his power to do but wait. Now, all he wants to do is run for the border with the wind at their back and the boat speeding to its limits. 

He turns the radio on, puts his phone in his pocket, and prepares to occupy himself until… _until Hannibal gets back,_ he corrects himself, stopping the images that come to his mind of Hannibal in handcuffs, Hannibal bloodied, Hannibal shot, Hannibal dead on the ground. He tries to stay busy. He inventories their sparse clothing items, airing them on the deck in lieu of laundry services, folding and refolding them, stacking them in neat piles on the floor by the couch, organized into a “Hannibal” pile of slacks and button-ups and a “Will” pile of flannel and jeans. Every time Will bends over he thinks his phone is vibrating and he checks it with something nearing compulsion, even though he hasn’t heard the ringtone go off. He inventories their food items, labelling them in Spanish in his head: _el frijoles, el pan, la sopa._ He can’t remember the gender for water. There’s some kind of trick when it’s singular, and he wishes Hannibal was there so he could ask. _Hannibal will be here soon,_ he reminds himself, but as the sun starts to crawl westward he finds himself doubting. 

For all Will knows, Hannibal’s already been caught. 

Will refuels the boat, readying them for the last leg of their journey. He checks the map and turns the radio up. Still no sign of a struggle or conflict. No news of Hannibal the Cannibal being found and apprehended. Will supposes that no news is good news, but he checks his phone repeatedly just in case. They’re 220 or so miles from Havana—less than 10 hours to go. They’re so close that Will can almost feel the sand under his feet, feel the warm breeze in his hair. 

_Hannibal is still recovering from his injuries,_ Will thinks. He will be slower, less capable of a fighter. He’s still walking with a limp, though he tries to hide it, probably for Will’s benefit. He is incapacitated already. He could be hurt so easily. He could be captured. And what then, if Will has to go in after him? Will watches the sky for the time. The sun is starting to sink, the sky turning orange in places. _Surely he’ll be back before sunset?_ The wind here is warm, certainly warmer than winter in Virginia. The sky is bright and cloudless, hardly portending some dark forewarning. There are only low clouds, drifting lazily through the still-blue expanse. Pink is beginning to crawl across the horizon, bleeding into the orange. It would be beautiful—breathtaking even—if Will wasn’t already breathless with anticipation, ready to fight if he has to, in spite of his own injuries. 

The radio cuts out to static. Will tries a different frequency, but he can’t make a connection. Worry creeps along his neck, down his spine and raises goosebumps in spite of the heat of the day. Tentatively, he shuts the radio off, for the first time since they left Bedelia’s. They’re going to be going blind until they get a signal again. 

_At sunset,_ Will decides, he’ll go after Hannibal. Hannibal had texted him the address the day before, so he knows where he will be. The sky is beginning to fade from cerulean to indigo, the clouds gathering along the skyline in swarming masses of pink and gold and umber. The sun is an orange ball, dipping in and out of the clouds, in and out of view. _When it dips out of view,_ Will promises himself, _I’ll head inland._

Will feels his pulse start to pound, his breathing start to quicken. He searches for a weapon, scouring the cabin, taking out the first aid kits and searching for something, anything, that would help him in a fight. There’s nothing as good as a gun, but he finds a set of flares and a utility knife. They’re not much, but it at least gives him something to do while he waits for the sun to set. 

Armed to the extent that he can manage, Will returns to the helm. The light is starting to fade, the first stars appearing. Will flicks open the knife, watching his reflection in the blade. He expects to look shaken, but he looks resolute, jaw set, eyes sharp. He has killed before, and what is one more murder after all that he has survived. Will knows then that he will survive this. He has survived so much—he has slaughtered the Great Red Dragon— what is one more murder? 

Just as the last light is leaving the sky, a figure becomes visible at the edge of the docks. The silhouette against the sky is blurred, broken only by a slight limp. In the first light of the rising moon it becomes clear that the man—for it is a man—is covered in something slick and black as motor oil, catching the light. As the man draws nearer, Will notices a distinct carriage to the man’s posture, upright in spite of the limp. 

Hannibal has returned. 

Will climbs down the ladder of the boat and races towards Hannibal. Upon closer inspection, Hannibal is covered in blood, and Will can’t tell how much of it is Hannibal’s and how much of it belongs to some unfortunate victim who crossed paths with the Ripper. When they reach each other, Will reaches his arm around Hannibal’s waist, supporting his weight as they limp to the docked boat. 

“My ‘friend’ betrayed me,” Hannibal manages through pained breaths, his abdominal stitches pulling tight. 

“Are we safe?” Will asks. “Are they after us?” Hannibal shakes his head, though it clearly pains him to do so. “Not yet,” he mutters. 

“I dispatched him,” Hannibal clarifies, “But he alerted the authorities.” 

“At what cost to you?” Will asks, eyeing the blood thick on Hannibal’s sleeves and chest. 

“I may have pulled a few stitches, but it’s nothing we can’t fix,” Hannibal manages around shortness of breath and the blood that is starting to stain his stomach. 

With Will supporting Hannibal, they limp their way back to the boat. When they are safely on board, Will opens the first aid kit, searching for more sutures. 

“No,” Hannibal gasps, “We must depart. I can manage.” 

Will hovers for a moment, torn between helping Hannibal and closing the remaining two hundred miles between the two of them and safety. After a moment of watching Hannibal successfully find first aid materials, Will decides to settle on the latter. As he starts the engine, the sound of police sirens becomes audible in the distance. Will doesn’t need further warning: they leave the docks as the night fades to black, the sound of sirens disappearing behind them.

Will can’t help but look over his shoulder the rest of the way. 

As it nears midnight, Hannibal emerges from the cabin in a fresh change of clothes, but still looking the worse for wear. He passes Will an envelope. Will opens it one-handed. Inside is a passport in a language he can speak better than read. It bears his photograph, taken from his FBI badge, and is emblazoned “Guillermo García.” 

“Will this do?” Hannibal asks, sinking painfully into the passenger seat. 

“It will.” Will smiles for the first time since Hannibal left that morning, what feels like decades ago. _“Mi nombre es Guillermo García.”_ Hannibal smiles back through the pain. 

_“Buenas noches, Guillermo,” Hannibal acknowledges.  
“Cuál es tu nombre?” Will asks.  
“Alejandro,” Hannibal answers. “Alejandro Hernández.”  
“Like Alexander and Patroculus,” Will points out.  
“Precisely,” Hannibal sighs, and relaxes into the seat.  
_

Hannibal is silent for a long time. Will focuses on the swell of the tides, the map spread out on his lap. The stars are bright in the sky this far out, and Will uses them to navigate in the absence of the radio. For some time the only sounds are the boat motor and Hannibal’s labored breathing. 

Eventually, Will works up the courage to ask, “What does _te amo_ mean?” Even without looking, he can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him.

“It means ‘I love you.’” Hannibal admits, looking away. 

Will fixes his eyes on the horizon for some time. Hannibal is quiet, admiring the stars. The silence is companionable, neither of them having anything to prove to the other. They know each other too well for that. Hannibal’s feelings have been laid bare, and now the weight rests on Will to respond. 

_“Te amo, Alejandro,”_ Will decides on, not looking away from his navigation. Will steers left-handed, letting his right hand rest against Hannibal’s. Hannibal carefully grasps Will’s free hand and squeezes softly, just once, a reminder of Here. Now. Will squeezes back. 


End file.
